Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938

Big House Cats by Convict 12627

The inside story of convicts who trade in the trust of their fellow men.

“Whenever three prisoners group together, one of them belongs to me.”

This remark was once made by a well-known official when queried as to his success in keeping down trouble in the prison. While his words may seem cryptical, they are easily understandable to any convict. This man meant that if any three prisoners gathered together to discuss an escape or a proposed rule violation of any kind, one of them could be depended upon to bring him advance news of the plan. In short, it was his claim that one of three prisoners in the institution was a stoolpigeon.

Criminals have different terms which they use in referring to informers, those men who curry favor by carrying tales of the activities of their associates to officials. The most common term, of course, is a stoolpigeon, but they are also called rats, cats and finks.

In most institutions the punishment of a stoolpigeon, when he makes the mistake of informing on the wrong man, is death, usually by a quick thrust of a prison-made knife. This usually is done in a crowd of convicts going to or from work or the mess hall, and many times the murderer is never identified.

It has been more than 25 years since I, a youth of 16 in jail for the first time, heard an old counterfeiter in the role of judge of a kangaroo court, describe a stoolpigeon.

“There are men here in this jail,” he said, “although I should not call them men, who will sell you out, send you to prison, or place the hangman’s noose around your neck in return for a smile from one of the turn-keys. These creatures — stoolpigeons, rats, finks, or whatever you call them — will gain your confidence and betray you for even less than the proverbial mess of pottage. So, if you are innocent or guilty, keep your business to yourself for there is no one in here who can help you.”

This little talk by a crook of the old school, one of those rare criminals who had a code of honor, something that apparently does not exist among criminals today, made little impression upon me at that time for I soon obtained my release, but some months later when I checked into my first penal institution, a reformatory, I recalled his words of wisdom and it was not dong before I recognized among my fellow workers, my neighbors in the cell-house, and everywhere in the yard where I went, the species of the human rat. There was at least one there whom I recalled as a schoolmate in my grammar school days and I remembered that even then he bore the reputation of being a “tattle-tale.” This caused me to believe, and observation in later life confirmed this belief, that stoolpigeons are born and not made.

Tolerated by prison officials and law enforcement officers for their undercover work, and hated by their fellow criminals, these creatures are a type. They have a shifty, hang-dog look about them, are unable to look in the eye of the person they are about to betray, and almost always they are the lowest type of criminal, the petty thieves, the panderers who live off their women, and drug addicts who would put their own mothers behind the bars to satisfy their longing for dope.

In this reformatory there were “official stoolpigeons,” prisoners who were given authority to report other prisoners for rule violations, and their reports carried as much weight as those of the paid guards. These “unpaid guards,” known as “non-coms,” wore a different uniform than that issued to the rest of the prisoners and were the most hated inmates in the institution. They had their quarters in dormitories in a building separate from the cellhouses in which were housed the 1,000 or more other prisoners. These special quarters were presumably a form of reward, but in reality they were to protect these men from punishment at the hands of those whom they had caused to be punished for rule violations.

I had been in this institution but a few months when I saw a demonstration of this stoolpigeons system, which was later to result in a vengeance — delayed, but none the less effective. I was employed in the office of the assistant superintendent, and in this capacity worked after the hours when the most of the other prisoners were locked in their cells. It was my duty to certify the correctness of the count at the close of each day, a count which was made by the non-coms. One evening there was considerable delay in the reports coming in from the various cellhouses, and a little later it was reported that there was one man short in “B” cell block. Immediately all the guards and non-coms were congregated in the institution yard, and then the superintendent made his appearance.

“Now, men,” he said, “this man who is missing has not been here long. He was assigned to the print shop and it is obvious that he has not yet made good his escape from the yard. He is hiding somewhere within these walls. It will soon be dark and if we don’t find him before then, he may succeed in getting over the wall. You prisoners who are gathered here are men who have proved that you can he trusted. Tonight you will work with the guards in an attempt to locate this missing prisoner. To any one of you who finds this man or gives any information leading to his hiding place I will give my word that you will receive a governor’s parole. Now scatter out and let’s see if we can’t find him before it gets too dark.”

I stood in the doorway of the assistant superintendent’s office and heard these remarks. As the superintendent made the promise of early liberty to the prisoner non-com instrumental in locating the missing man, I could see their faces light up with pleasurable anticipation, but only one of them was to be rewarded. The line had no sooner broken than this non-com stepped up to the superintendent and saluted smartly. What he told the official I, of course, do not know, but immediately following this conversation the superintendent summoned two guards and he accompanied them to a huge pile of coke in the institution foundry and in a few minutes the missing prisoner was yanked from beneath the coke. His face and clothing streaked with dirt, he scowled at the smiling non-com who had turned him in.

“Some day,” he said, “I will get even with you for this.”

The non-com received his conditonal parole a week or ten days later while the would-be escape artist went to the punishment cell. Later I talked with him in the recreation yard and he told me that the non-com had suggested that he hide out under this pile of coke, and it appeared that the informer had deliberately framed the prisoner to further his own personal interests. The man who had attempted to escape was required to serve additional time and although he swore vengeance upon the man who had turned him in I did not think at the time that he would ever have an opportunity to fulfill these threats.

Some two years later I was at Revere Beach in Boston when I met the man who had hidden under the pile of coke. He told me he had obtained a parole, had received permission to return to Boston, his home, and was working steadily and doing well. I asked him if he had ever met the man who had framed him. He replied that he had not but was sure he would some day. We walked over to a refreshment stand where I bought him a soft drink. With the glass halfway to his lips he stopped and stared toward a group of sailors a few feet away. Then, without a word, he slammed the glass on the counter and dashed toward the group. Before I could catch up with him he had grabbed one of the blue-clad figures by the throat and had him down on the ground pummeling him severely.

There was no question as to the victor of this fight up until the time when they were taken in custody by the police. My friend, the man with whom I had been talking, soon obtained his release on bond provided by his parents, and it was not until then I learned that his sailor victim was the same man who had led the officers to his hiding place in the reformatory several years before. He laughed off the incident and seemed to be well satisfied that he had obtained his revenge even though it had been delayed...

It seldom happens that a stoolpigeon offers his services to a prison official without being asked, and when this does happen the official usually becomes suspicious.

Not many years ago in a midwestern prison there was a man by the name of Mickey Doolin. His commitment showed that he had received a term of 25 years for robbery. Some two weeks after his arrival, he was interviewed by the deputy warden in reference to a work assignment.

“Doolin,” said the deputy, “you have a pretty bad past record. This is the fifth prison you have been in besides a number of jails and workhouses. You have a long term here. I know it is useless to try to reason with men of your type. You’ll probably try to escape and of course it is our job to try to keep you here, but I want to warn you that when a man tries to escape here we shoot and we shoot to kill.”

“You got me wrong, Deputy,” said Doolin, “I didn’t come here with any intention of escaping. It’s true I’ve got a bad record, but you won’t find anything on it about escaping. You can believe it or not but this is a bum beef that got me this 25 years. I’m not guilty of this rap.”

“Whether you’re guilty or innocent,” said the deputy, “is not our concern. The courts found you guilty or you wouldn’t be here. If you can prove your innocence and get out we shall not put anything in your way. We’ll treat you right as long as you treat us right.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Deputy,” said Doolin, pulling his chair closer to the official’s desk and leaning forward confidentially. “You see I’ve done time in so many joints and hung out with crooks all my life and I’ve got so I know most of them either personally or by reputation. These men trust me, Deputy, for I’ve never been known to put the finger on a man in my life. But now it’s different. I’ve got 25 years to build and I’m getting pretty well up in years. I’ve got sense enough to know that if I play ball with you people you can help me get out of here. Now I always said if I ever turned stoolpigeon I would be a first-class one and I’m ready to do just that. And I’ll guarantee there isn’t another man in this joint who can do you more good and never be suspected than I can.”

“I don’t believe you, Doolin,” said the deputy. “I think you’re trying to work some kind of an angle on me, but I’m willing to gamble a little with you to find out. Our warden here doesn’t believe in using informers, but you know as well as I do that no man can run the inside of a prison without using them. I’m going to put you to work in the kitchen for the time being, and meanwhile I’m going to keep an eye on you and see just how sincere you are.”

Doolin reported to the kitchen for duty and found several men there he had known in other jails and prisons. These men, knowing him to be trustworthy in the past, put him in right with the others and it was not long before Mickey was in on the petty rackets being practiced in connection with food supplies being stolen from the state. For several weeks he shared in the profits to be made from stolen bits of food, and then almost every night one of the waiters going from the kitchen to his quarters would be called out of line and searched, and in every case the man would be carrying a contraband package of food. The kitchen connivers put their heads together in an effort to discover how the deputy warden was managing to catch the right men each night. They finally came to the conclusion that some prisoner working in the kitchen was tipping off the official.

“We know it ain’t any of the four of us,” said Mickey, when asked for his opinion. “We’ve all known each other in other joints and we know there ain’t a stoolpigeon in the bunch.”

“That’s right.”

The others agreed with him and Mickey continued sending the brief notes to the deputy warden which led to the discovery of the men carrying away and selling the stolen foodstuff from the kitchen. The deputy found an opportunity to compliment Doolin on his fine undercover work and the prisoner assured him that he was going to prove to be the best stoolpigeon ever to enter the institution.

The deputy warden was still puzzled at Doolin’s attitude and wondered if the man was sincere or trying to work some sort of an angle to bring about an opportunity to escape. He decided to watch Doolin closely, for many years of experience in handling convicts had taught him that it was seldom that a criminal with a long record in back of him ever turned stool-pigeon.

Having disposed of a number of kitchen workers by having them caught with contraband food, Doolin was eventually promoted to the position of night cook. It took Mickey several weeks to have his three close friends assigned to the flight shift with him.

“What could be sweeter than this?” Doolin asked his companions one night as they ate their midnight lunch. “Here we are all longtimers with records and working at night in the kitchen. We are closer to getting out of this joint than any other guys in the prison.”

“I’ll have to admit that you have done more in a few months than we have been able to do in several years,” admitted Red McCarthy, a bank robber doing forty years. “And I’ve been curious to know how you did it.”

“I’m going to cut you guys in on the secret,” said Mickey, “because I know we’re all going out of here together one of these dark nights. Some of you may not agree with what I’ve done, but it was the only out I could see, and we are doing too much time to try to do it all. When I first come here I told the deputy warden that I realized I had more time than I could build and I offered to be a stoolpigeon for him. Well, he knew that I was friendly with all the right guys in the joint, and of course he was tickled to death to add me to his long list of finks. Naturally, I had it in mind all the time to crash the joint but I had to have help. I knew all you guys were doing long jolts and I knew you could be depended on, so in order to convince the deputy that I was on the level with my snitching I had some of these guys carrying chuck to the cellhouses knocked over. They weren’t our kind of people anyway, and none of them was doing a long time, so my conscience don’t hurt me none for what I done. The result is that we are all working on the night shift and got the best chance we’ll ever have of leaving this place without telling the deputy goodby. What do you guys think of the way I planned this thing?”

“Well,” drawled Red, “I’ll have to admit that you got us in a pretty good spot to lam the joint, but somehow or other I don’t think I could have put the finger on those other guys. Still, I suppose it was necessary in order to get in the deputy’s confidence and have him accept your recommendations as to us guys.”

“Those guys who got knocked over with the chuck don’t mean a thing to us,” said Mickey. “The most of them are ‘Honest Johns’ anyway, and the few days they put up in the hole ain’t going to hurt them. Now we’ll have to get our heads together and figure out how we’re going to crash the joint. We don’t want to lose too much time, but neither do we want to go into the thing without figuring every angle. If we mess up this chance we’ll never get another one like it.”

Night after night Mickey and his three companions went over every detail of their escape plan. Saw blades to cut the bars of the basement window, civilian clothing to don after scaling the wall, an automobile for a getaway, these were all discussed. Finally, after several weeks discussion, the plans were complete and a definite date was set for the escape. Hacksaw blades had been stolen from the automobile tag plant and were secreted in the kitchen ready for use. Saturday night was set as the time for the escape, Mickey arguing that Sunday would afford better opportunities for avoiding the dragnet which would be thrown out for them. Mickey’s companions were jubilant over the prospects of early liberty which seemed to be almost within their grasp and they were loud in their praise of the man who had made it possible for them to escape. Mickey also seemed to be well pleased, but he told the others he was doing this as much for himself as for then. If his companions had been present at an interview between the prisoner and the deputy warden they would have had a better understanding of the patience with which Mickey had planned the escape and his eagerness for his companions to join him.

“I told you, Deputy,” said Mickey, “when I first came here that I would make you the best informer you ever had, and in return I, of course, expect you to do something for me.”

“You won’t lose anything by helping me,” said the deputy. “However, all I can do is make recommendations to the warden, but any time a man does anything for me which I believe deserves a return favor I’ll go to the front for him until he is rewarded. You have, as you say, been a good man for me, but still you haven’t done anything that warrants me trying to get your time reduced.”

“You’re right, Deputy,” said Mickey “Yes, sir, you’re exactly right, but what I’ve been doing is using my head. I’ve been gaining the confidence of the desperate characters in the prison. What would you say if I told you that three of the worst men you have here are planning to escape and if it had not been for me you would not have known anything about it until after they were gone?”

“Who are they?” asked the deputy, trying to conceal his eagerness.

“I’m going to tell you that,” said Mickey, “but, first you realize that if these men had succeeded in getting away the newspapers would have put you and the warden on the pan for it. Now I think that I deserve some credit for stopping this escape, for I am now in a position to do exactly that. I realize that I have a bad past record and that I haven’t been here long but if you will go to the warden I believe he will recommend to the governor that my time be cut so that I can get out in about two years.”

“If I find that your story is based on facts,” said the deputy, “and if your information enables me to prevent an escape I will see that you are properly rewarded.”

“Okay,” said Mickey. “I know your word is good.”

Mickey told of all the details being planned for the escape Saturday night, and of the hacksaw blades already hidden in the kitchen. The deputy listened with interest.

“Now,” ended Mickey, “there’s one more thing to be considered. These guys expect me to go with them, and in order to throw off suspicion I’ll have to pretend that I am going along. They will have a long rope with a hook on it to use in climbing the wall, and you can tell your guards that I will be the fourth one to go over so they won’t shoot at me. In that way it won’t get spread over the prison that I stooled on these fellows. If you want to, you can keep me in the dungeon a few days to make it look on the level.”

The deputy agreed to the plan and promised that the men would not escape.

“Of course,” he said, “I could put them in solitary confinement before they tried to escape, but if I did that I wouldn’t have any evidence on them except your story and the chances are the warden wouldn’t stand for them being kept in solitary on that alone, so I’ll let them go through with the escape and have enough guards planted outside the wall to stop them if they have to mow them down to do it.”

Mickey was well pleased with himself and began to plan on enjoying his liberty within two years instead of the twenty-five years the judge had given him, but to his companions he talked of the stolen liberty which he said would be theirs within a few days.

Mickey found himself unable to sleep on the Friday preceding the day set for the escape. He wondered if his companions would halt when commanded by the guards or if they would be shot. After all, he was interested only in his freedom. These men meant nothing to him. They were only a means to an end.

Friday night after the last of the late work lines had been fed and sent to their cells Red McCarthy approached Mickey.

“Mickey,” he said, “we have decided that we should show our appreciation of your putting us in a position to lam tomorrow night, so we’re going to put on a big feed for you. This is one night when you can sit around and take it easy. We’re going to do all the cooking and at midnight we’ll have a spread for you. In the meantime, you go in the back, get yourself a magazine and read, or take a nap if you want to. After tomorrow night we’ll have to split up for a while and there’s no telling when we will get together again.”

“Well,” said Doolin, “I appreciate you fellows doing this for me, but you must remember that I am getting just as much benefit from it as you are. Anyway, I’ll enjoy the feed, so you fellows go to it.”

It is possible Mickey Doolin suffered some pangs of conscience as he waited for his pals to prepare the big feed. They, he must have thought, probably considered him a swell guy.

It was just past midnight when Mickey was called back to the kitchen to find the table loaded with good food, most of which had been stolen from the prison storeroom.

“This is what we might call a farewell dinner,” said Red. “That is, it’s farewell to this joint for us. This time tomorrow night we’ll be getting ready to climb that wall and get on our way back to the bright lights.”

When the meal was over Mickey leaned back and stretched.

“That sure was a swell feed,” he said, “and we’re going to have lots more of them in the outside world. We’ll pull some big jobs, too, when they get tired of looking for us. Well, I guess we had better clean up these dishes and get them out of the way before the night captain comes in. Gosh, but I’m sleepy. Guess I might have eaten too much.”

“We’ll take care of cleaning up,” said Red. “You go on back and lay down if you want to. We’ll wake you up in time to start the main line breakfast.”

Mickey went to the back room and stretched out on a bench. In a few minutes he was snoring loudly. His three companions stood over him and smiled.

“He’ll be out for at least two or three hours,” said Red. “That stuff I got from the nurse in the hospital is sure strong. Well, we’d better start to work on those bars in the basement. It’s almost one o’clock and the captain comes through about three.”

Mickey was still snoring lustily when the three men completed the sawing of the bars which would give them access to the prison yard and with but one more barrier between them and the outside world, a thirty-foot stone wall. From a hiding place in the kitchen storeroom they brought forth a long rope to the end of which was fastened a large iron hook. Hastily they discarded their prison uniforms and slipped into unnumbered overalls.

“Well,” said Red, “I guess we’re all set. All we have to do now is keep an eye on the guard in the corner tower. He’s not likely to see us in the dark and once we hit the ground we’ll be in the clear. Won’t Mickey be surprised when he wakes up?”

It was shortly after three o’clock in the morning when the night captain entered the kitchen for his usual cup of coffee. Seeing none of the prisoners about the range he tiptoed back to an alcove where he knew they often played cards which was against the rules. He found no prisoners there. Quickening his step he went to the back room. There he found Mickey sprawled on a bench. He shook the prisoner several times before Doolin opened his eyes.

“Where’s the other boys?” asked the captain.

“Eh?” said Mickey, still groggy from the dope his three companions had given him. “Why, they are cleaning up the table.”

“Table?” repeated the captain. “What are you talking about? I believe you’re drunk.”

“No,” muttered Mickey. “Just too much — farewell dinner.” He sank back on the bench and closed his eyes again.

When the deputy warden made his appearance, having been summoned by the captain, he found a way to rouse Mickey thoroughly.

“Where are they?” he demanded. “You might as well come clean. You tricked me into this to have us off guard so these men could escape. God help you if they are gone.”

Mickey’s remonstrations were of no avail. The deputy refused to believe that the prisoner had been sincere in acting as an informer and he sent him to the dungeon.

It was almost two years before the last of the trio of escaped convicts were apprehended and returned to prison, and when they had completed their terms in solitary confinement and again appeared in the prison yard they merely laughed when Mickey asked them to tell the deputy that they had doped him, but they did tell all their friends of his informing on the men with the contraband food, and at last reports, Mickey Doolin, distrusted by prison officials and hated by his fellow convicts, walks alone in a crowded prison, knowing not when a knife will be slipped between his ribs, and doubtless as he contemplates the long years in front of him he doesn’t care when and if the end comes.

While Mickey Doolin’s plans for profiting from being a stool-pigeon ended as most convicts would like to see all similar plans end, there have been instances where convicts gained their liberty by assisting prison officials without any intention of doing so. Bob Durant, an oil stock swindler serving a term in a western prison, was the central figure in a case of this kind.

Durant was educated, more or less refined, and was of a type among whom are seldom found informers. During the day he worked in the prison library, and on five nights of the week he taught a class of journalism in the institution school. Because of his like-able personality and readiness at all times to write letters for other inmates and to advise them, he was liked by both officials and the inmate body.

At some time during his life Durant had done newspaper work and his contributions to the prison publication showed that he possessed some writing ability and for this reason he was permitted to organize the first journalism class in the prison. Durant was smart enough to realize that his success with this class would probably determine the amount of time he would have to serve on his five-year term, consequently he worked tirelessly with his students. Durant soon learned that his class was more interested in fiction writing than reportorial work, so he frequently gave them story assignments based upon plots which he would outline for them. He was outlining one of these plots one night when the warden unnoticed, stood in back of him.

“Now, men,” Durant said, “there is one important rule to follow in writing, particularly while you are learning, and that is to confine your writing to subjects and locales with which you are familiar. That is why I am going to give you an idea for a story tonight which will have a prison as its locale. Here is the situation: A warden of a prison is worried because of the large amount of dope finding its way into his prison. His guards are unable to locate the source of the dope, but its use in the institution has become so widespread that news of it has reached the outside world.

“In this prison the inmates are permitted to make curios for sale outside, such as the ladies beaded bags which some of you fellows make. This is the manner in which the dope is being smuggled into the prison. One of the prisoners, who makes a practice of buying up these bags from other inmates who have no outside markets is the man who is the ‘dope king.’ He is trusted and unsuspected by the prison officials. He frequently sends out bags in quantities of a dozen or more to outside customers on approval. Some of these are purchased by these customers and others are returned to the prisoner as undesirable. In the lining of the returned bag the dope is concealed, and any of you who are familiar with morphine or cocaine know that many hundred dollars’ worth of the narcotics, at prison prices, could be concealed in one of these bags. Now your problem is to write a story and have the warden find a solution to his dope problem without using a stool-pigeon. You have good material there for a story and I want you to do your best with it. You will submit your completed manuscripts two weeks from tonight and the best story will be published in our local paper.”

In less than two weeks after Durant’s talk to his class he was called from his cell one night, taken to the clothing department and dressed in civilian clothing. From there he was taken to the warden’s office.

“Durant,” said the warden, handing the prisoner a long envelope, “I am glad to hand you this pardon from the governor which just arrived. Here also is your ten dollars gate money and a railroad ticket to the city from where you were sentenced. I want to personally thank you for your services which enabled me to break up this dope racket and place the ringleaders in solitary confinement where they will remain until prosecuted by the federal government. I also wish to compliment you on your clever scheme which you used in informing me of the ingenious plan used in smuggling the dope. When I stopped at your class that night and heard the beginning of your story outline, I knew you were trying to tip me off, and believe me, I didn’t miss a word of it. Good luck, my boy, and I hope you never come back again.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

Durant shook the official’s hand, passed through the big gates, and as he walked down the dark street toward the railroad station he congratulated himself upon serving a five-year term in less than a year and wondered if the man who had told him of the dope scheme would believe him guilty of deliberately informing, or if his friends would still believe in him and that he didn’t know the warden was within hearing distance when he outlined the story plot. But back in the prison where the beaded bag merchant and his co-conspirators were languishing in solitary confinement Durant was being branded as a stoolpigeon, and doubtless in other prisons which he would visit in the future, the mark of Judas would still remain with him.